Timothy [written June 29, 2009]

Timothy said he was wanted in two different countries. There were three different ways to spell his middle name. He was fluent in four different languages and he had mastered five different methods of self defense. Timothy had been a thief on six different occasions. He walked up seven concrete steps to get to his front door. There were eight books about hot wiring cars on a small shelf by his bedroom window. He had nine wishes come true via the ten shooting stars he had wished upon throughout his lifetime.

As Timothy recited the number of things he had owned and random facts he had known, he turned to me with an awkward smile, the kind of smile that says, "But I've only been in love once." The smile demanded a reaction and after I had measured its integrity, I smiled the same smile back.

Timothy was beautiful in all ways American. He had the most perfect American abdomen and the most perfect American hairstyle with metro-American clothes that seemed to stick to his figure like the blanket he was wrapped in at birth. I was perfectly un-beautiful in the most un-patriotic way. While he was at the gorgeous age of seventeen, I was at the hideous age of fifteen. I had snaggle teeth and a twisted figure. My posture could even be considered offensive to most. But nothing in Timothy's posture indicated that he was offended by mine.

It was thirty minutes after midnight and we were both waving our feet in the pool. The moon made his teeth look blue. We weren't saying anything. I could hear his breathing mesh with the sounds of crickets and other insects as they flocked toward the pool light. The humidity and chlorine had already chewed away at my hair, but it seemed to make Timothy's even more beautiful. I imagined running my nail-bitten fingers through his hair, but the thought made me cringe. I could never assault him in that way.

He slapped my shoulder. "There was a mosquito," he muttered.

I searched for any sign of the blood sucking beast and found nothing. My face burned red as my shoulder did. And I danced around the idea that he used an insect as an excuse to touch me.

He dived in. The wave of water he left behind hit me like another slap. I watched his pinched and distorted silhouette underneath the blue folds and still couldn't find him to be anything but perfect. If he was really wanted in two different countries, I didn't mind being a refugee with him. I imagined a life like that with him, always running but always running together. It reminded me of the scene at the end of the movie Battle Royale, when the refugee couple went running through the city, hand-in-hand.

I stared at him for several seconds before realizing that he didn't seem to be concerned about returning for oxygen. Maybe he was showing off by holding his breath. Maybe it was a game. Boys did that sort of thing. I tried laughing off the idea until I began to panic. I stood up and waited a couple seconds more. It wasn't a game.

I flew over the edge of the pool after him. The chlorine burned my eyes and I found him on the bottom by the plug. He sat there, his shirt fluttering like a bundle of seaweed. I wasn't a good swimmer and I wasn't very quick. My ears popped painfully as I pushed the water behind me and made my way to his two-bit rescue. I wrapped my gawky arms around his waist and kicked the concrete floor with my feet.

The kick was barely forgiving, but I soon found myself hitting the water with my legs frantically to get to the surface. Even in the water he felt heavy and I was choking. Holding onto him with my left arm, I used my right to swim upward. I met the end of my heroic act with a fit of coughing. My nose burned and my chest felt like it had been crushed. I pulled Timothy to a step and left him there until I heard him coughing too. Then his cough turned into laughter.

Without thinking, I slapped him against the cheek. His laughter froze and I saw that his teeth were still blue. “What was that for?” he asked, then pretentiously innocent.

“There was a mosquito,” I muttered.